


Dream a Little Dream of Me

by HeyAssbuttImBatman



Series: Kliego Week 2019 [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Ben is there but he doesn't show up, Bisexual Diego Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Kliego Week 2019, M/M, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Soulmates Share Dreams, Stuttering Diego Hargreeves, because he's a ghost you know?, luther and five make a cameo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-04 20:26:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18820093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyAssbuttImBatman/pseuds/HeyAssbuttImBatman
Summary: Diego doesn’t dream. Klaus dreams too much. If the happy medium here is both of their minds melding into one hellish dreamscape, then they seem to have achieved it, because sometimes Diego wakes from a dream he barely remembers, disoriented and half-sure it was he and not Klaus who spent days screaming in the dark with no one but ghosts for company.





	Dream a Little Dream of Me

**Author's Note:**

> Day One: Soulmate AU
> 
> I'm back, y'all! Figures that it's disaster gays that drag me by my hair from my hiatus.
> 
> EDIT AS OF 05/20/2019: This fic has been beta read for typos and grammar mistakes.

Sometimes when Diego dreams of the past, he sees Ben, sixteen years old and sassy as all get out and dead dead _dead_.

Well, Diego doesn’t dream, usually, or if he does, he can’t often remember it. Klaus—his soulmate—no— _Klaus_ dreams enough for the both of them, and it’s always seemed like the one good thing the universe ever did for them. Klaus’ traumas saturate their shared dreamscape, and it’s enough. If all of Diego’s traumas were injected into their soulmate bond as well? Klaus wouldn’t be the only one addicted to drugs, probably.

* * *

But the thing is Diego does smoke weed occasionally, because the effects of the dreams are lessened when they’re high. The colors and sensations and sounds (and smells and even tastes, on one memorable occasion, which makes Diego shudder to think about)—they’re all muted when he falls asleep with smoke in his mouth, in his lungs.

On the other hand, when Klaus falls asleep high (or drunk or coked out of his mind or shivering in an alley somewhere with a needle stuck in his arm) and Diego is still sober, the dreams are much, much more vivid for Diego.

He wants to be angry about it, because Klaus knows what he’s doing, but it’s hard to be mad at your soulmate. Even worse, it’s hard to be mad at _Klaus_. Diego’s got a saving-people-complex a mile wide and almost never is it more obvious than when he willingly accepts the brunt of Klaus’ trauma onto himself, simply so Klaus can get a good night’s rest.

Diego can’t remember the last time he slept peacefully.

* * *

He almost doesn’t attend the funeral when he hears about what happened to Sir Reginald because he knows all of his siblings will be there, but he eventually does go, because he knows all of his siblings will be there.

And Klaus.

(Klaus was never really a brother to him, no matter how many times Sir told them off for not efficiently ignoring their bond.)

The funeral is underwhelming. Diego feels as though there should be _more_ —trumpets or explosions or a goddamn speech, at the very least. Sir Reginald was the sun around which all of them hurtled, trapped in his orbit like so many specs of dust, and yet all of that pomp and circumstance has led them here, to a sad pile of ashes that used to be the man who made them who they are.

The man who ruined their lives.

Most of Diego is glad he’s gone. But even now—even _now_ , and it infuriates him in his weaker moments, when he stops to think about it—there’s a part of Diego that starves for Sir’s attention, for his praise, his approval. 

So Diego opens his mouth to speak, when Pogo asks, and he doesn’t know what he wants to say, but what comes out is:

“He was a monster.”

And Klaus—slippery, mischievous, disloyal, junkie Klaus—lets out a surprised laugh.

It’s almost enough to distract Diego from trying to bash Luther’s brains in.

Almost.

* * *

Here’s the thing—it’s been years since he saw his siblings. Besides Five, who he suspects (hopes) didn’t exactly do it on purpose, he was the first of them to leave, and that was thirteen years ago. Aside from seeing Allison in ads, or Vanya’s awkward photo on the inside back cover of her book, or Luther on the fourth or fifth page of the newspaper whenever Sir sent him on a mission—he doesn’t know what they look like, how they act, what they like and hate.

He doesn’t know who they are.

(He knows this about them: Luther is the only one of them who still loves Dad, Allison has always had the worst self-restraint of all of them when it came to their powers, and Klaus is _haunted_ , in every way that counts.)

(He knows Ben is still around, and that thought hurts more than it probably should.)

But hearing Klaus’ laugh—faint and breathy and surprised, and honestly more of a surprised exhale than anything—it awakens a drive in Diego he thought he’d quashed when he was seventeen.

He wants to get to know his soulmate, and not simply through their fucked up dreams.

* * *

Five is back and still thirteen, even if he drinks coffee and whiskey and calls them all kid and walks as though the weight of the world is on his tiny shoulders.

Diego dances when he hears music, and wanders through the house and softly touches the things he was never allowed to touch before, and then he goes to find Klaus.

Wonder of all wonders, Klaus is in Sir’s office, rifling through the cabinets and muttering—to himself or to Ben or to whatever other ghosts lurk in this house, Diego isn’t sure. He leans against the doorway and watches with a mix of confusion and amusement as Klaus tosses papers around and rifles through drawers.

After a few moments, Klaus freezes and glares off at nothing.

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” he hisses, and Diego looks at the empty corner Klaus is glaring at.

“Hey, Ben,” he says. Klaus inhales sharply and finally turns to face him. Diego doesn’t look at him. “Sorry I didn’t say anything earlier. There was just a lot going on, you know? And sorry about your statue, by the way, though I have to be honest, I never thought you’d like it.”

There is a pause, and then Klaus, very softly, says, “He says it didn’t look like him anyway. How did you know he was there?”

And this second question is firmer and louder and just a bit angry, and Diego finally looks at Klaus and tries to force his shoulders to relax. Klaus looks pretty. Tired and sick and too skinny, perhaps, but eldritch and pale and _pretty_ nonetheless. His heart skips a beat.

“I’ve seen him in your dreams,” he says quietly. “He’s there a lot, especially when you’re. Um. Not sober.”

Klaus rears back and his lip curls, and Diego knows he’s thinking about this unofficial pact between them, this agreement to not mention the bond after years of Sir’s conditioning and also the words left in the air between them thirteen years ago.

_If you were a better soulmate you wouldn’t be leaving me here with them!_

_If_ you _were a better soulmate, you wouldn’t be getting high and leaving me with your night terrors!_

Suddenly Diego has to know. “All these years we were apart, did you leave me with your nightmares just to spite me?”

Klaus can be hurtful when he really wants to be. He can cut right to the heart of you and leave you raw and bleeding on the floor, all with a few silver-tipped words. He can be as callous and malicious as Sir ever was.

But now Klaus only smiles sweetly, his eyes the slightest bit unfocused, and pats Diego’s shoulder on the way out.

“Don’t be so conceited. Not everything is about you.”

* * *

It should be easy, now that they’re in the same house, to time it so they don’t fall asleep at the same time, but somehow neither of them is quite competent enough to do so. Diego opens his eyes after collapsing onto his bed to the sound of dozens of unearthly voices screeching at him, a hellish cacophony like the discord of a symphony of sinners. 

But it’s not his name they’re screaming.

_“Klaus!”_

Klaus’ dreams—or nightmares, as they usually are—are disjointed, disorienting. Diego is lost in the dark, surrounded by pitch black and the rotting faces of ghosts. He can’t see the mausoleum even if he knows that’s where he is. 

He can’t see Klaus, but when he reaches out, he finds Klaus’ arm anyway.

“Ever learned how to wake yourself up from a nightmare?” he asks, flinching when one of the ghosts rushes at him, screaming. Klaus tugs him to the side just before it can phase through him. 

“No.”

Diego feels more than he sees Klaus’ full body shudder. Klaus moans in pain. A moment of heart-stopping panic when Klaus pulls his arm free of Diego’s grasp—Diego wonders if it’s possible for him to get stuck in here, sometimes—but then Klaus takes Diego’s wrist instead. His grip is tight enough to hurt.

Diego crouches down in front of Klaus so that he’s blocking Klaus’ view of the ghosts. The ghosts wail angrily in the background but now at least he can see Klaus. In the way of dreams, Klaus is both the adult version Diego saw at the funeral and the teenaged version Diego saw thirteen years ago. Either way, he looks terrified. 

“You need to learn to control it,” he says. His voice takes on that strange echoey quality it always gets in dreams, but he pays it no mind, even if it bothers him. He’s never been able to resist helping someone who needs it.

Klaus lets out a laugh that’s well on its way to becoming a sob. “What do you think the drugs are for?”

One of the ghosts takes the opportunity to stick its face through the back of Diego’s head until its face comes out of his. Klaus _jumps_ , his nails digging into Diego’s wrist hard enough to draw blood, and Diego shivers at the pain and the cold but makes no move to throw Klaus off. 

“Klaus, push it away,” he says, and he knows without having to look that the ghost is mimicking him, their faces overlapping until it’s unclear how much of that face is the ghost and how much is Diego. Either way, Klaus is looking at him in horror, his eyes wide and unseeing. 

“Klaus,” Diego says again. He can feel the ghost in him like pressure against his chest, pushing down on him until he fears his lungs will collapse with it. Panic begins to bleed into his voice, the corners of his vision. What happens if he dies in a dream? “Klaus, come on, man.”

“No, no, no, no,” Klaus mumbles to himself, still staring at Diego’s face. Diego grabs Klaus’ arm with his free hand and shakes him.

“ _Klaus_ ,” he tries to scream, but he has no air—it comes out a strangled whisper and that, it seems, is finally enough to snap Klaus out of it. He jerks and Diego knows he’s waking up—forcing Diego out of his mind with a hard shove—it feels like falling in reverse, like something or someone is dragging Diego up and up and up through layers of ether and consciousness until—

Diego jerks so hard he almost falls out of the bed. His heart races and he’s breathing so quickly that he’s beginning to get lightheaded, so he forces himself to take slow, deep breaths, sitting stock still until he has better control of himself. 

Then he goes to take a shower, because real or not, the mausoleum always leaves him feeling filthy—covered in sweat and cobwebs and the remnants of Klaus’ terror like it’s a tangible thing. Diego washes with icy water so he can pretend his shivering is from the cold.

* * *

The thing is, he’s _missed_ his siblings, even if he’s reminded of why he can’t stand them after only a day spent in the house with them. He’s even missed Vanya. 

She and Diego were never particularly close as kids, and he resents the things she wrote about them in her book—portraying the Umbrella Academy as some sort of club she was excluded from, when Klaus was driven to addiction because of it and Ben died for it and Allison can’t form real relationships because of it and Diego—

(Out of all of them, Diego is perhaps the most well-adjusted, but he puts on a domino mask to go beat up criminals after dark and twirls knives between his fingers like a child hugs a well-loved teddy bear, so it’s not as if he’s well-adjudged in general.)

Anyway. 

Vanya and Diego have a sort of camaraderie, or at least they used to, because while Vanya was _ordinary_ and excluded, Diego had useless powers and was isolated. 

(Sir Reginald’s words, not Diego’s. And when compared to altering reality or jumping through time, yeah, throwing knives is pretty fucking useless.)

The two of them would often sit, during their allotted free time, in companionable silence and do their own thing, sometimes complaining to each other in hushed whispers when they were sure Sir and Grace and Pogo weren’t around.

After the funeral and Klaus and Five, Diego goes to their place, the little sitting room that none of the others ever used because it was so out of the way of the kitchen and the living room and their bedrooms. Vanya is there, flicking through an old practice book of sheet music with the sort of reverence and revulsion Diego’s been torn between since coming back here. 

He drops onto the couch across from her, putting his head in his hands and sighing heavily. He wants to go find Klaus, but he has the suspicion that Klaus wouldn’t appreciate the concern. And anyway, it’s not as if—

“Bad dream?” Vanya asks, so unexpectedly that Diego jolts.

“Christ,” he hisses, and rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, you could say so.”

She hums noncommittally. A few moments later, she says, “Is it Klaus?” Diego opens and closes his mouth in surprise.

“Um,” he says. “Yeah. How’d you know?” She shrugs.

“You two always had a weird relationship growing up. Also, Klaus was passed out in here earlier and he talks in his sleep.”

Diego’s heart flutters, because the thought of Klaus talking in his sleep is just so fucking cute.

“You should talk to him,” Vanya says, and Diego sneers.

“You’re not my therapist,” he says.

“At least one of us went to therapy,” she retorts, and it’s so far from the quiet, meek girl she was just yesterday that Diego blinks. She immediately looks sheepish, and pulls an orange bottle from her pocket to dry swallow a pill. “Sorry. Anxiety.”

He nods. They both seem to deflate a bit.

“You’re right, though,” he says. “About me needing to talk to him. It’s just so _hard_ , you know? I don’t want to do it while he’s high, but it’s not like he’s ever sober, now. And anyway, I don’t think he wants to talk about it.”

“He’s your soulmate,” Vanya points out. “The whole point is to want to make each other happy. Just. . . be honest with him. I’m sure he’ll listen.”

Diego exhales slowly and gives her a weak smile. “All this from therapy, huh?”

“The wonders of a shrink,” she agrees.

* * *

So there’s not really time to talk to Klaus.

Diego pretends it’s because they’re too busy (which they are, but honestly, none of them are taking this whole apocalypse thing as seriously as they probably should be). Really, though, there are plenty of opportunities. He’s just being a coward.

“You’re being a coward,” he tells his reflection. “What’s the worst he’s going to do, refuse to talk about it?”

( _He could reject you completely_ , says some heinous little voice in the back of his head, but Diego pushes it firmly away.)

He doesn’t really get the chance to say anything until they’re barrelling down the road in a stolen ice cream truck. This is not a good idea at all; Klaus was chugging vodka like it was water before this, for one thing, and tensions are running high after that little setback at the veteran’s bar, but Diego’s just been shot at and adrenalin is making his hands shake like _he’s_ the one going through withdrawal, so. Klaus driving it is.

At least Ben’s having a good time, if Klaus’ bemused smiles are anything to go by.

They have a long stretch of road ahead of them, and Klaus is a captive audience at the moment, which Diego would feel bad about at literally any other time that isn’t now.

Now he just makes a grim face and turns toward Klaus as much as his injured arm will allow.

“We need to talk,” he says, and Klaus lets out a breathy laugh. His hands dance along the steering wheel, the nervous tic of a cornered animal.

“No,” he says, “no, we don’t. What is there to talk about, even?”

Diego’s eyebrows furrow, and he doesn’t even try to hide how much that hurts. _Like one of my own knives stabbing through my heart._

“About the fact that we’re soulmates,” Diego says firmly. “Look, whether we feel the same way about each other or not, we should at least clear the air. I’m tired of all this dancing around the issue bullshit.”

“Well, what if I like dancing?” Klaus says defensively. “I don’t appreciate you shitting all over my favorite hobby.”

“Klaus,” Diego says. “Stop avoiding this.” _Please_ , he almost says, but Diego will not beg. Not even if it’s Klaus.

“There’s nothing to avoid,” Klaus says, hunching his shoulders.

“ _Klaus_ —”

With a screech and the smell of burning rubber, the car skids to a stop in the middle of the road. Diego goes flying into the dashboard and catches himself with his hands, letting out a shout when it jars his bullet wound. _It’s fine_ , he thinks as fresh blood leaks down his arm, sticky and hot and like ants, marching relentlessly with all their skin-crawling legs. _It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine._

“What the fuck,” Diego spits, pressing down on his wound with his hand. Klaus doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t care.

“Shut up, Diego, just shut the fuck up,” Klaus says, his voice a little manic and his eyes narrowed and angry. He lets out a laugh. “Of all times, you have to choose now to start giving a shit about me.”

This conversation is a bird, fluttering so far out of Diego’s reach that he can only just barely see it wheeling in the sky if he squints.

“What are you _talking_ about?” he says. “We need to catch up with Hazel and Cha-Cha. Can you do this while we drive?”

“No!” Klaus snaps. “I can’t, actually, so sorry if I’m offending your infallible sense of justice or whatever gets you off at night.”

“Klaus,” Diego starts, and then forces himself to stop and take a deep breath. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

Klaus is in his face suddenly, angry and sneering and so close that Diego can smell the vodka on his breath, see the panic in his green eyes. Almost without his permission, Diego’s gaze drops to Klaus’ lips, and Klaus notices and frowns harder and makes a frustrated sound. 

“Quit _doing_ that,” he says, tugging at his hair. And then, a moment later, “Shut up, Ben, you’re not helping.”

Diego is quiet for a moment, listening to Klaus’ shaky breathing and the sound of the motor idling underneath them.

“Klaus,” he says softly, because he has lost control of this conversation. “I just want to be your soulmate.”

Klaus smothers his face with his hands and screams. When he looks at Diego again there are tears in his eyes. 

“You decide that _now_?” he exclaims, his voice thick. Diego’s heart races even though he isn’t breathing, can’t remember the last time he took a breath or if he ever even had to breathe at all. His whole life has been this very moment, Klaus screaming at him in an ice cream truck while Diego can do nothing but sit there and take it. _I’m in shock_ , he thinks, but isn’t sure if it’s true or if he’s just that stunned.

“It’s been years, Diego. I’ve literally been pining for you for so long I don’t even know what it’s like to _not_ be heartbroken over you.”

“And you think I had it easy?” Diego says hotly. His voice goes high and mocking. “‘Oh, poor me, pining over my soulmate like I’m the only one who’s ever had to.’ You hurt me, too, Klaus, so don’t pretend like this is all on me. Dad made us _both_ ignore the bond—”

“Dad hasn’t been in charge of us for _thirteen_ years, Diego, and not _once_ did you ever make the effort to find me—”

Klaus cuts off suddenly at the look on Diego’s face.

“You have no idea, do you?” Diego asks rhetorically. “We run into each other all the time! God, I don’t even know how many times I’ve found you drunk or coked out on the side of the road and _dragged your ass_ somewhere safe, and asked you to stay even though you never fucking _do_!”

Klaus blanches. “That’s not fair,” he says quietly. “I can’t control myself when I’m on drugs.”

“And who’s fault is it that you’re addicted?” Diego says sarcastically. Acid drips from his words like the blood dripping down his arm and Jesus, he’s starting to get lightheaded.

“It’s fucking _Dad’s_!” Klaus screams. He lets out a hysterical laugh. “Everything always goes back to him, doesn’t it?”

“Shut _up_ , Klaus, and don’t bring the fucking mausoleum into this. You’re not the only person he’s ever locked up.”

But it doesn’t appear that Klaus heard the second part. His eyes are vibrant green poison, locked on Diego’s with startling focus.

“You don’t want me,” he hisses, and it’s an accusation, not a statement of self-deprecation. “The dreams are always mine. It’s always the mausoleum, always from my mind, never from yours. The bond is supposed to be a two-way street, isn’t it? It’s always me reaching out, _always_ —”

“ _Klaus_ ,” Diego shouts, and Klaus goes silent, looking at Diego with wide eyes because it’s _anguish_ in Diego’s voice, not anger, and his eyes are starting to prickle with tears and _oh God, not now, of all the times to cry_. “Would you shut up and listen to me for once in your life? _You’re not the only person he ever locked up!_ He put me in a t-t- _tank_ like I was a fuck-fucking science experiment and left me there f-f-for days!”

And Diego’s crying now, big ugly tears that burn his eyes and itch worse than the blood soaking his shirt. Half of his words are sobs.

“Diego,” Klaus says. Diego shakes his head and covers his mouth with the back of his hand, looking up at the roof of the truck while he tries to gather himself. Long moments pass before he trusts himself to speak. His voice trembles, but at least the stutter is gone.

“The first time he shoved my head into a bucket of water. Every time after that he locked me in a tank in the basement. Those dreams where we’re locked in the dark, where there are no ghosts but we can’t fucking breathe?” Klaus blanches, and Diego’s lips curl up in a snarl. “Those are _my_ dreams.”

“Diego,” Klaus says again, weakly, but Diego barrels on because he’s been holding this in for almost thirty years, _damn it_.

“Excuse me for suffering in silence, but maybe I didn’t want to shove my shit onto you,” Diego snaps. “We’ve both got issues, Klaus, and Dad is responsible for all of them but our bond shouldn’t be one of them! _I love you, you enormous asshole_.”

The silence that stretches out after his outburst is dense, a black hole which sucks away Diego’s every attempt to lighten the situation. What does he even say after that? He doesn’t know what Ben is saying, but whatever it is is enough to get Klaus to stare at him incredulously before he turns back to Diego. His eyes are glassy.

“I love Dave,” he says, and Diego thinks, _Who the fuck is Dave?_ before it hits him, a punch in the gut that steals all of the breath he doesn’t need to survive. _This_ , he thinks, staring at Klaus with wide eyes, _this is what death feels like_. 

Klaus lunges at him and Diego realizes that he’s been fumbling for the door handle behind him. He makes a wounded noise that he will deny to his dying day, and Klaus grabs Diego’s good arm in both of his with surprising strength.

“Let me go,” Diego snarls.

“Not until you calm down and listen to me. _Listen_ ,” Klaus says sternly, and despite himself, Diego stops struggling. He watches Klaus warily. There are thirty years of dreams between them, nightmares of the highest caliber, and Diego has felt pain before, and heartbreak, but _this_. This is worse than anything Sir ever did to them, worse even than making them ignore their bond in the first place.

“They’re g-going to get away,” Diego says, and his voice is petulant, young— _hurt_.

“Shut up,” Klaus says intently. He looks deep into Diego’s eyes, into the heart and soul of him, and it’s searing. “I love Dave. I _love_ him, okay, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able not to.”

Diego jerks against Klaus’ hold on instinct. He doesn’t want to hear this. 

“But,” Klaus says loudly, “but he’s not my soulmate, Gogo. It’s you and it always has been. I’ve always loved you and I always will. I just thought that you didn’t want me.”

Hope is such a fragile, fluttering thing, a butterfly trying to brave a tempest. It builds in Diego’s chest and spreads warmth wherever the gossamer of its wings brush against him.

“You’re an idiot,” he says firmly, and leans forward to kiss the offended look off of Klaus’ face. It’s messy and uncoordinated and wet—they’re both crying, he thinks—and it’s _perfect_. Klaus smiles against Diego’s lips and his hands wander, one teasing up Diego’s arm, his shoulder, his neck to cup his face so gently it makes Diego want to cry. The other slides around his waist and underneath his shirt, the fingers teasing whatever skin they can reach with the harness in the way.

Abruptly Klaus pulls away with a hiss.

“Ben is right, we have to go,” he says. Diego whines in protest. He’s two seconds from climbing into Klaus’ damn lap if it means they can keep kissing, but Klaus pushes him firmly away. “Diego, stop thinking with your dick for two fucking seconds. There are _assassins_ on the loose.”

“I’m an assassin and I’m loose all the time,” Diego mutters. 

“That’s different and you know it,” Klaus says. He takes a moment to gather himself—loudly, dramatically, shaking his head and blowing out a breath that splutters as it passes through his kiss-swollen lips. “Now put on your fucking seat belt, I’m about to floor it.”

And then he does. Diego looks ahead. This is a serious situation, a life-and-death kind of situation, and it’s _exhilarating_. There aren’t any damn seat belts.

“Go faster!” he shouts, and it doesn’t take long before they catch up to Hazel and Cha-Cha, and Five and Luther, for some reason, and Klaus, the fucking lunatic, doesn’t _stop_ until there are two thuds against the front of the ice cream truck.

Diego can’t quite catch himself before hitting the dashboard this time, and his ears are ringing as he and Klaus pull themselves out of the truck. Diego’s knees buckle as soon as he hits the ground but Klaus is there, wrapping an arm around his waist and dragging him toward the car Luther definitely stole from Sir’s garage.

When they’re safely in the backseat and peeling out of there like the hounds of hell are on their tail, Diego lets his head fall onto Klaus’ shoulder and closes his eyes. He sighs, and it feels like thirty years dissipate into the air like curling smoke.

“We still need to talk about this,” he mumbles sleepily. Klaus presses his mouth to Diego’s hair.

“We will,” he says. “But not right now. I feel like I’ve just been fucked without cleaning out my ass first.”

_Gross_ —but so very _Klaus_ that Diego can’t help but smile.

**Author's Note:**

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